One month

Jake died one month ago today.

In some ways it seems like an eternity. In other ways it has flown by.

Life right now is strange.

I wish I could explain it. I am still trying to figure it out myself. I probably will be for a long time to come.

In some ways it feels like coming home from an LDS mission. You had your life before, you lived an intensely physical and emotional and spiritual experience, and then you are supposed to assimilate into some sort of new existence.

There are so many conflicting emotions.

We are thinking forward to moving and setting up a new home and life.

We are thinking backward in processing memories, experiences, and moments we shared with Jake in our home.

I am seeing things with new eyes and feel an appreciation for the most simple of pleasures.

I sat outside with Tommy the other day for two hours. We put our feet in the pool, turned on the hose and splashed in puddles in the grass, and went on a walk as he rode his tricycle. I hadn't done that with such abandon in years.

I've also been able to make some plans for the summer. Two months in advance. I hardly know how to handle that kind of freedom.

I have picked up my kids from school and made their lunches. I went to book club and met up with friends. I feel keenly the difference in living without the weight of disease constantly pressing down upon us.

At the same time I have lost a sense of purpose.

Caring for Jake, even before it got more intense, was what I did with many hours of my day. It was my joy and my pleasure and I would have done it forever.

I am profoundly feeling that loss.

The kids and I miss Jake in our daily interactions. At the dinner table. At recitals. For school events. Watching sports. During church. At bedtime.

I find myself wishing for him at every turn. Extra hands to help at night. His sympathy when I'm having a hard day. His hugs and kisses. His knowing glance.

Little things trigger the reality of him not being here. A letter stating that he'd missed his dental appointment and needed to reschedule. His iPhone. His keys. His unused toothbrush on the bathroom counter.

However, again and again I am so grateful that we had time to prepare.

That is not always the case.

Many people die with no notice and their deaths leave a shocking, gaping hole.

Living with a terminal disease is no picnic either. The possibility of death is always looming, threatening to darken even the brightest day.

Jake had moments where he wished he'd just been in a terrible car accident and taken in an instant. And he had moments where he would endure any physical suffering to see another day.

I have been so grateful for our preparation.

Nothing was off the table, and with my mind that goes to the worst case scenario and mouth that must verbalize what I am thinking, Jake heard it all.

There was nothing we would not talk about. Those were terrible, difficult conversations, but today when he is gone I am so grateful that we had them.

Together.

I draw on the things we talked about every single day.

Although he can't physically be with me, I feel that through our preparation I can still rely on his strength, direction, and encouragement.

And as specific Jake thoughts come to mind I know that through the Holy Ghost he is still able to communicate with me.